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glimpsed that day in Maeve’s throne room,
the dark blood that had turned to red.
She hadn’t told the others. Didn’t know if
that moment had been real, or a trick of the
light. If it had been another dreamscape, or
some fragment that had blended into the very
real memory of Connall’s death.
She’d deal with it later, Aelin decided as
she stood by the prow, the others long since
having gone to their own quarters belowdecks.
Only Rowan remained, perched on the
mainmast as he scanned every horizon for
signs of pursuit.
They’d evaded Maeve. For now. Tonight,
at least, she wouldn’t know where to find
them. Until word spread of the strangers in
that port, of the ship they’d paid a king’s
fortune to take them into war-torn hell. The
messages Aelin had sent.
At least Maeve didn’t know where the